


Radio Signal

by wunderlichkind



Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander (TV), Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, NSFW, PWP, celebratory smut, popcorn and haydust universe, shameless porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-07
Updated: 2019-01-07
Packaged: 2019-10-06 08:00:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17341613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wunderlichkind/pseuds/wunderlichkind
Summary: Fergus sure knows all Ian's buttons to push.





	Radio Signal

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Popcorn and Haydust](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14877686) by [wunderlichkind](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wunderlichkind/pseuds/wunderlichkind). 



> I wrote this as a gift to my tumblr readers after surpassing 200 followers. It is loosely based onto "Popcorn and Haydust" and it is nothing but shameless PWP.  
> Have fun and thank you for reading!!!

He checks his watch for possibly the twentiest time in as many minutes, but as much as he’s willing the hands to move faster, time continues to crawl at a snail’s pace. The lecture hall seems to be buzzing with a nervous undercurrent and not for the first time in his life, Ian wonders whether maybe he has some form of ADHD. In any case, while the monotone droning of the guest speaker at the podium doesn’t manage to hold his attention, his senses feel uncomfortably hyperfocused on every little sound or movement around him, his inner unrest showing in his uncomfortable perch on the old wooden chair, the butterfly quick quiver of his finger against the small tabletop connected to it.

 

Ian stretches in his seat, the low back rest of the chair digging into his shoulderblades and he cherishes the stretch for a moment, bowing back until his shoulders touch the wall behind him. The loud ping of his computer cutting through the muted whispers and the professor’s voice startles him, and he almost shoves it off the small table in his scramble to shut off the sound, cursing under his breath in Gaelic.

 

He takes a moment to collect himself before checking his laptop, glancing around to gauge his fellow students’ reactions and gratefully taking his pen from the girl sitting next to him, who had retrieved it from the ground before it could vanish under a seat three rows down.  

 

When he finally focuses on the his computer screen, a wide smile spreads over his face that he can’t control, and he excitedly calls up Fergus’ IM.

 

**_Fergus:_ ** _Where are you?_

 

His chat icon is adorned with the light green dot telling Ian that Fergus is still online, and he quickly types out a response.

 

**_Ian:_ ** _Sitting through the least interesting lecture of the century. Entertain me, please!_

**_Fergus:_ ** _Merde – and I had hoped you’d entertain me. Well, not so much entertain me but scratch an itch_

 

Ian chuckles under his breath at the message, choosing to ignore the excited flutter it triggers at the base of his stomach.

 

**_Ian:_ ** _Are ye really trying to sext me in the middle of a class?_

**_Fergus:_ ** _You better believe I am, babe_

The flutter in his stomach is rapidly travelling deeper, spreading its vibrations all through Ian’s body, not helping his general antsiness at all. He sighs, licking his bottom lip and turns to both sides, relieved to see his neighbors seem immersed into the lecture still.

 

**_Ian:_ ** _Calling me babe, huh? I call unfair procedure_

**_Fergus:_ ** _I can get much unfairer, believe me_

Ian takes in a sharp breath when the picture pops up on his screen, his left hand immediately balling to a fist in his lap, the scrape of his own fingers against his thigh taunting him even more. Fergus is lying in bed, his long locks spread over the white pillow, the look in his eyes almost obscenely sexual. The sheets are a mess, intertwined with his sprawled out body, hiding almost all of his lower half. Almost.

 

**_Ian:_ ** _Fuck me_

He’s beyond grateful for the presence of mind that made him write it out instead of muttering it under his breath, his eyes still trained on the flushed tip of Fergus’ cock peaking out from under the edge of the crisp white sheet.

 

**_Fergus:_ ** _I’d love to_

**_Fergus:_ ** _Are you imagining it? Me fucking you?_

**_Ian:_ ** _God yes_

And as he types out the words he is, his mind stuck on an image from just a few nights ago, the reflection of his own flushed face in Fergus’ bathroom mirror. He can almost feel the ghost of cold tile against his hand, gripping empty air in answer, he can hear the ghost of Fergus’ voice whispering filthy nothings into his ear, spurring him on through the heavy slide of their bodies. It takes him a second to realize his lips are parted in a silent pant, and he makes a conscious effort to close his mouth.

 

**_Fergus:_ ** _Tell me what you’re thinking of_

**_Ian:_ ** _Remember when we got home from that art show last week? Ye sucked me off in the shower and then bent me over the sink and told me to watch myself..._

**_Fergus:_ ** _How could I forget_

**_Fergus:_ ** _The way your noises echoed back from tiles is embedded into my brain as the perfect soundtrack to every dirty fantasy ever_

**_Fergus:_ ** _Get out of that class, babe, I need to hear you_

Ian is almost standing before his brain processes what he’s about to do. He’s hard in his jeans, cock straining against the fly, his thoughts conflicted between cursing the day he met Fergus and everything that came after, including his own weak willpower and sweet, sweet anticipation.

 

**_Ian:_ ** _Give me 5 minutes_

He types the words in a rush, quickly gathering his things and closing the laptop, carelessly sliding everything into his bag. He thanks the past version of himself who chose to sit at the back of the room, only three chairs in, muttering apologies to the two blondes whose view he obstructs trying to get to the door as fast as he can. He hasn’t slung the bag over his shoulder, instead choosing to hold it against his body, and as he looks back one last time to check that the professor hasn’t noticed him leaving, he can’t help but jut his hips just slightly, gripping the bag a little tighter in an involuntary and vain chase of friction.

 

The hallway outside the lecture hall is thankfully empty as he emerges, and he has to force himself not to run in relief. There’s a handicapped bathroom in this building, just one floor up. Ian tells himself that handicapped people can hold it for a little too, that he’s not the worst person in the entire world for blocking their toilet because he wants to have phone sex with his incredibly hot boyfriend, but his internal struggle slowly makes way for pure physical excitement with every quick step he takes, with every foot he gets closer to his destination.

 

He drops his bag into a corner as soon as he enters the small, square room and the phone is dialing before he’s properly locked the door behind himself. Fergus picks up on the second ring, his breathing so heavy in Ian’s ear that it carries him right through the small moment of awkwardness ( _what is he doing here, where does he stand, how...?)_ and into that heated mood of recklessness Fergus tends to wake in him, has ever since they’ve known each other, really. It was Fergus, who sparked the courage in him to come out to his friends as a teenager. It was Fergus, who made him embrace his sexuality, who – quite possibly – makes up big parts of that sexuality, if Ian is being completely honest with himself. It was Fergus, who triggered Ian sitting through over an hour of performing arts with a butt plug buried in his ass on the off chance that – after seven years without contact – Fergus might want to switch it out for his cock.

 

„Ye’re mad,“ Ian chokes out over the raging onslaught of lust, the last of his reins on it abandoned. Fergus gives a breathy chuckle in answer.

 

„I’m mad for you, babe,“ he says and it’s a calculated sentence, immediately scoring the desired effect – a soft moan on Ian’s lips.

 

„Tell me what ye’re doing,“ Ian rasps, setting the phone to speaker and putting it down on the small counter, finally giving in to the urge of putting a hand on himself. He almost groans in relief at the delicious friction of jeans against cock as he rubs softly, slowly increasing the pressure.

 

„Two fingers in my ass,“ Fergus pants, and this time Ian really groans, the sound echoing off the tile wall, mixing presence with memory in a heady cocktail. „Fucking the damn mattress like I’m a horny teenager,“ he goes on, his voice raspy, needy. „Where are you?“ he asks urgently, making Ian wrap his fingers around himself even firmer.

 

„In a bloody handicapped bathroom.“

 

„Staring at yourself in the mirror.“

 

It’s not a question, more of a praise and Ian watches himself blush in said mirror, Fergus’ tone both a perfect caress and a desperate twinge to his need.

 

„I... aye,“ he admits, voice barely above a hoarse whisper. „Fuck, the image of ye in my mind...“

 

„Touch yourself for me,“ Fergus tells him, the command sending another wave of want surging through Ian’s blood, his fingers racing to undo his fly and finally, finally wrap around his leaking cock in blissful relief. The sound he makes is answered in kind on the other end of the phone.

 

„ _Dieu,_ Ian, you’re so good for me...“ Fergus sounds wrecked, Ian’s name a blasphemous prayer on his lips, and Ian knows he’s close. He races behind Fergus, his hand dancing furiously on his cock, his eyes staring blindly into the mirror, instead seeing Fergus’ fingers disappearing in his ass, Fergus’ flushed cock against the crumpled white sheets, Fergus’ perfect, soft, moist lips releasing the filthy stream of consciousness echoing in the tiny bathroom.

 

„Rushing out of your lecture to touch yourself in a bathroom, so eager... It barely took me three messages to work you up... God, I love how responsive you are... Wish I could see you...“

 

Ian’s breath is erratic, he’s conscious of the plethora of sounds escaping him, but unable to keep any of them in, and at Fergus’ last words, he does see himself in the mirror for a moment, blending over the mental images of the other, his hair somehow disheveled, his eyes wild, his cheeks and neck flushed with heat.

 

„Fergus,“ he pleads, for what he doesn’t really know, but trusts Fergus to – he always knows, knows exactly what Ian needs.

 

„Come for me, babe.“

 

It’s all the permission he needs, all the incentive, all the stimulus. He almost sobs at the enormity of his feelings, a small, faraway corner of his mind surprised at how intense he experiences this. The bigger, much louder part of his mind is consumed by the blinding rush of adrenalin and endorphins, is jumping off a cliff and soaring through the sky, towards the safe haven that is Fergus on the other end of the line.

 

Fergus is coming too, his long groan and endless string of curses and endearments carrying Ian on the wave of his high for what feels like an eternity, and longer still.

 

It takes them a while to catch their breath, after, before Fergus breaks the silence on a chuckle. „Well, that happened.“

 

„Aye, that happened. Yer picture is probably floating around somewhere in the depths of Goldsmith’s internet servers forever now,“ Ian laughs and raises a shaky hand to reach for the paper towels. „And I missed about half of my lecture, so you owe me one.“

 

„Looking forward to paying that debt, _mon loup.“_

The radio signal of their phones carries Fergus’ grin across the roofs of London and stays with Ian long after they end the call.

 

„I bet ye do,“ he murmurs to himself, righting his shirt and trying the grin on for his own. „I bet ye do.“


End file.
